


Contact High

by galacticproportions



Series: Drunk In Love [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi
Genre: Consent, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Intrigue, Leadership, M/M, Making Out, New Relationship, Responsibility, Someone is drugged but no further harm comes to them, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 08:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticproportions/pseuds/galacticproportions
Summary: A potential ally drugs Finn's drink, and Poe has to deal with the results.Takes place a reasonable length of time after the events of TLJ.





	Contact High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orchis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchis/gifts).



> Please heed the tags! No one is hurt, no one does anything they aren't eager to do, but if you can't read a story where someone is drugged in a way that takes away their ability to give full conscious consent, don't read this story. 
> 
> This is for Orchis, who gave me the prompt, "I thought of Finn getting stoned or drunk on something and being extra affectionate and sweet...but Poe has to be sober or mostly sober," which I immediately turned into a glum and twitchy meditation on consent and responsibility and why we love people because this is me we're talking about and I cannot, apparently, be stopped. Hope you like it anyway, friend!

 

It'd be an exaggeration, Poe thinks, the kind of thing _he'd_ say—probably will say, telling the story later—to say that _everything_ had gone wrong. The negotiations didn't work out, that's all; the Veiy Gua Har Gua Trust isn't willing to invest in the Resistance. Their representative is bland and sorry, smiley-regretful, but on the other hand the bruisers who escorted them out turned back at the door. So it didn't work out; so the Resistance can't replenish its woefully, grotesquely depleted finances, at least not in this quarter; so they'll try again elsewhere, he and Finn.

Finn, who about two-thirds of the way through the meeting, one drink deep, started edging closer to him, until by the time Poe and the representative were exchanging cool goodbyes he was fitted up against Poe's side like memoryfoam. Finn, who is now just a little clumsy, just a little leaning-and-brushing, just a little reaching to get an arm around Poe's waist as they walk from the gleaming geodesic dome of the trust offices toward their lodgings for the night. It's a risk—the longer they stay here, the better the chance First Order operatives or just a local with a yen for the bounty will make them—but Poe's too tired to get them out tonight even if the planet's proximity to a double neutron star didn't require some fancy flying.

“You okay, buddy?” he asks. It would never have occurred to him that he'd be irritated by Finn wanting to be close, but he could have used some negotiating support back there and what he got instead was snuggles.

“Yeah, 'm good. You're just nice and warm.” Finn pauses as though he's getting his thoughts together. “And you smell good,” he produces. “Did you know?”

Before the meeting, they'd agreed: Poe, as the main negotiator, would stay sober; Finn would have one drink to be gracious. “Will it be a problem for you?” Poe remembers asking, not knowing stormtrooper protocol for intoxicants; remembers Finn responding with confidence, “One should be fine.”

True, he didn't _say_ anything unprofessional, or offer the rep any information that she wasn't supposed to get. But he seems to have grossly overestimated his capacity. Or maybe the drink was extra strong? Poe puts a palm on Finn's back to guide him around a corner, and almost snatches it away again: the back of Finn's shirt, between his shoulder blades, is drenched with sweat and hot in the cool night. Finn pushes back a little, chasing the touch. It isn't just that he's a lightweight. Something is wrong.

In their rented room in the anonymous hotel, under bright fluorescents that make everybody look slightly like dead meat, Poe sits Finn down on the bed. “Let me see your eyes,” he says, squatting so their faces are level.

“I'll show you mine if you show me yours,” Finn says. “See, it's funny, because if you want to look at _my_ eyes you have to use _your_ eyes.” His face softens a little as he reaches up to thumb across Poe's cheekbone. “Yours are pretty.”

“Yours are dilated all to hell,” Poe says. “BB, c'mere. Finn, I think something's happening to you that shouldn't be. Can BB-8 test your blood to see what's wrong? It'll just be a little jab to your finger, they do it to me all the time.”

“Sure,” says Finn, and holds out his hand, and doesn't flinch when the droid taps his skin with the needle and swabs up the red bead of blood. Stormtrooper training. But he does put the pricked finger in his mouth and sucks it unselfconsciously while BB-8 does the assay, and Poe is physically staggered by tenderness.

They've fooled around twice. The first time, on the third night at their cell's new base, a disused refueling station near a defunct mining planet: they were tired and getting ready to go to sleep and Finn just looked at him and said, “I've been thinking about kissing you,” and then did it, and it turned out they weren't as tired as they thought. The second time was more calculated, but also faster, more urgent: Poe figured he'd press his luck, approached Finn with intent the first chance he got, and was rewarded for his initiative by getting his mouth fucked in a maintenance corridor behind a smelter that hadn't needed maintenance in decades. Then they both went off to lead separate briefings.

Now they eat together when there's anything to eat, and they sleep on the same pallet when sleep is an option. Mostly they count on each other to take care of what they're good at. They chose to be based together, but this is the first time they've been out to work together: Finn wants more practice on the negotiating side, and Poe wants more people to be able to do what he does. And better. Preferably better. And he wants—

BB-8 starts blurting and peeping, and Poe hooks them up to the portable readout so that Finn can see it too, though his eyes certainly don't look like they're tracking. They sit thigh to thigh on the bed, and Finn follows Poe's lean toward the monitor.

SAMPLE SHOWS TRACES OF ETHYL ALCOHOL LESS THAN .01. SAMPLE SHOWS MASSIVE DOSE OF METHYLATED ARGOSINE TETRAQUALAMIDE .12. There's a pause, the cursor blinking.

“Beeb--”

BE PATIENT DUMBASS. METHYLATED ARGOSINE TETRAQUALAMIDE ALSO KNOWN IN BASIC AS PUSHOVER AND EASY STREET. IN HUMANS DECREASES INHIBITIONS AND LARGE MOTOR COORDINATION HEIGHTENS TOUCH SENSITIVITY INCREASES TRACTABILITY. OTHER SYMPTOMS INCLUDE FLUSHED SKIN PROFUSE PERSPIRATION RAISED BODY TEMPERATURE DILATED PUPILS. EFFECTS IN HUMANS LAST 7-12 STANDARD HOURS ACCORDING TO SENSITIVITY DRUG INTERACTIONS AND BODY MASS.

“Is it dangerous?”

The yellow letters blink in one by one. USED RECREATIONALLY AND ALSO TO FACILITATE ROBBERY, INTERROGATION AND SEXUAL ASSAULT. SO YES.

Poe can't think about that. Doesn't need to. Finn is here with one human and one droid who—who are loyal to him, he's safe that way, for now. “What about to human biological systems?”

RARELY LETHAL IN HUMANS. MAY DISTURB DIGESTIVE AND CIRCULATORY FUNCTIONS.

“Antidotes?”

TIME. WATER AND PHYSICAL ACTIVITY MAY HELP REDUCE AFTEREFFECTS THROUGH INCREASING URINATION AND PERSPIRATION.

Poe sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Finn, you with me?”

“I think so,” Finn says. “She drugged me, right? The rep.”

“Yeah, looks like.” Poe isn't sure how much actually got through, so he reiterates, “It isn't dangerous, but you'll probably feel sick tomorrow. BB-8 says water and exercise might help with that. So let's go outside and walk a little more.”

“Which do you think it was?” Finn asks, clearly working to concentrate. “The talking, or the compliance, or what?”

Poe's ashamed; leave it to Finn to pay better attention than anyone's giving him credit for, including the person who's supposed to trust him so much and think he's so great. “I don't know,” he says, remembering the drink that the droid poured out for him, untouched and collecting condensation in the overheated room; thinking of the rep's appraising glance—he'd attributed it, then, alternately to the fact of the negotiations and to Finn's truly stellar face and shoulders and general aspect.

Now he isn't sure what the plan was: get them to reveal something really tasty, like the location of the new cells (Rose organizing on Biure 7, D'Acy's people in the Ngama Belt) or the names of their current backers? Wrangle them into a compromising position—with someone on her staff, say—complete with holocameras rolling? “Anyway, it didn't work,” he says, but Finn's already slipping again, heavy against him, murmuring, “Soft,” into Poe's neck.

 _Physical activity,_ Poe thinks, _they didn't say what kind,_ and he entertains the thought, a full-body thought, of rolling with it and into it, easing Finn down to the mattress. Taking their time, with Finn laid out before him like a starfield. Sipping from his collarbone, teasing and biting his nipples, kissing the place where his ribs meet, licking the sweat ( _perspiration, raised body temperature)_ from his belly, watching him shudder, feeling him moan ( _touch sensitivity)._ Getting him babbling _(decreased inhibitions_ ) and begging, unbuttoning and unfastening and undoing him for hours (it's already been about an hour and probably the drug will peak halfway, but that still leaves them with a good amount of time, more than they've had so far together), keeping him there—

 _Tractability,_ Poe thinks with a sickening drop of his guts. _And also to facilitate—_

They can't. He can't. Obviously he can't.

Poe's an adult who was once a teenager and of course he's fucked around while he and the other person, or people, were fucked up. But that's just not where they are yet, he and Finn. Poe wants to be there, wants it for so many reasons, that point when you've talked and listened but most of all just _noticed_ enough to know what's cool and what's off-limits, what's an enhancement and what's an impediment. Even now, it'd be different if they'd gotten drunk together at a post-mission celebration or shared a few grams of spice to relax. It's not just that they'd both be feeling it—it's that it would've been Finn's decision, his own suspension of judgment, his deliberate surrender and trust.

This is not that. This is Finn caught in a state he didn't choose, and Poe the one who has to make a decision about the breath on his neck and the fingertip absorbedly tracing circles on his thigh and the warm totality of Finn, even though the competence and the careful reasoning and the strategic insight are all offline right now. Finn who, high as a kite, still gathered his resources to try to understand what they're dealing with, and who now in his disinhibited state is touching Poe with a kind of musing contentment, saying, “This is nice, sitting here like this.”

“Yeah,” Poe says truthfully, “but we should get outside and walk, it'll help this stuff wear off,” and maybe wear them both out, he doesn't add. He wants to minimize the percentage of this evening that he has to spend fending off the touches he actually wants.

Jangdan is a neon city, maglev trains whizzing above their heads and advertisements fluttering out of the dark, zeppelin guywires transmitting their hum to the walkways where they're tethered. Not a great city to be on edge in, and Poe is on the jump. His hand hovers near his blaster grip. Finn walks dutifully next to him on the other side, his reaction times to passersby on hoverskates or changing traffic lights a fraction slow. Once his pace lags, and he says wonderingly, “You have a _great_ ass,” before catching up again.

Twice Poe draws, and three times he almost does, because one of the glow-limned figures coming toward them seems a little too purposeful. Of those times, once Finn moves to cover him, once he sort of halfway does, and the rest of the times he doesn't react at all until Poe has already determined that no shooting is required. This, more than anything, convinces Poe that Finn is really out of it. As far as responding to danger is concerned, he's alone here.

That's what's hard. That's what—hurts, if he's being honest. He's been able to count on Finn when they were apart, and he was looking forward to doing it when they were together, meeting contingencies together, holding up only half of whatever was going on instead of the whole thing. Of working together in the field the way they do in the situation room, but also the way they did in the first moments they knew each other. He's sick of being the one who has to keep everything in his head and decide about everything and keep track of everything and he knows, he _knows_ he's not being fair and keeping his hand poised to draw is giving him an ache in his elbow.

And Finn is next to him on the other side, face shining in the lavender and magenta neon, saying, “Are you ready to go back? You look tired.”

Back in the room, it becomes clear that Finn's shirt is drenched at the armpits, around his neck and down his back. He worries at the fasteners with his fingertips, and Poe steps forward to help him, somewhat against his better judgment. (He can see right where his tongue would go, the exact spot, around the left-side point of Finn's collarbone and down into the dip at his throat.)

“You're worried,” Finn says, dropping his even wetter undershirt to the floor and smoothing at the spot between Poe's eyebrows, touching his jaw muscle where it's clenched tight. “Don't worry.”

Finn usually sleeps in undershirt and drawers, and Poe hasn't seen him shirtless much. Even in the deadening overhead lights, the warm life of his skin shines through. His shoulders are flexed a little, and his chest muscles bunched, because his hands are lifted to Poe's face. He's glistening, because he's sweating, because the drug in his system is making him sweat. And Poe is worried, at least as worried and irritated as he is turned on. He takes a deep, heavy breath, lets his eyes meet Finn's unfocused ones before stepping back, softly, not to be unkind.

Finn steps back too, and sits on the bed to take off his boots. “Okay if I go to sleep?” he asks. “I'm tired.”

“Yeah. Probably the best idea.”

Finn lines up his boots, takes his trousers off, lies back like an outtake from Poe's fantasy earlier. “Are you gonna sleep, too?”

“Gotta clean my teeth. I'll get you some water too.” They didn't pay for a room with an adjoining fresher, so he has to go down the hall. And then it turns out they don't have water, just sonics, so he has to go all the way down to the front desk and requisition a jug of water and a glass from a droid who's surprisingly unhelpful for how obsequious they sound—the programming here seems to run to servility, something BB-8 was scathing about on the way in.

By the time he does all that, and completes a discreet patrol of the hallways on the floors above and below on the pretense of taking a wrong turn, and gets back to the room and sets the portable alarms on door and window, the hard-on induced by the shirtlessness and the face-stroking and so forth is mostly gone, and Finn is stretched out, his eyes open. “How you feeling?” Poe asks him.

“Good. Just watching the lights.” Traces of the neon night are slanting their way up through the window, projecting onto the ceiling the play of color that appeals to the eyes of a very stoned person. _Time,_ Poe reminds himself, _time and water,_ nothing else to be done about it. (And _physical activity.)_ He fills the glass and holds. “Sit up a second?”

Finn drinks with gusto, arm raised, head back. _Why not a drop of water rolling down his chest too,_ Poe thinks, _that'd make it perfect._ This does not happen. Finn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand—another thing he'd never do sober—and sets the glass with exaggerated care on the nightstand (which, like the bed, is actually a molded part of the wall) and lies back down. “Lie next to me,” he suggests.

So Poe, who at this point is more tired than anything else, sits on the edge of the bed, and he takes off his boots, and he takes off his trousers, and he takes off his jacket. He leaves his shirt and drawers on, which he usually doesn't to sleep—a protective layer. And he lies down on his back, a foot or so away from Finn, who promptly reaches out for him.

Poe is preparing the speech, the one he should have had ready, but Finn just gathers him in and mumbles up to him, tucking his head half-under and half-against Poe's chin, where his hair tickles and scratches and his breath, still, is humid and warm. He strokes Poe's back like the seen-better-days undershirt is the finest silk, or the soft pelt of a jumpy animal that needs soothing. “Can you do this to me too?” he says, muffled a little.

Poe does, smoothing his palm over slick skin, the round of Finn's shoulder, the place halfway down the upper arm where one muscle tucks into another. He kisses the top of Finn's head, keeps his lips pressed there, breathing, and the tension and the irritation and the worry sink down—not leaving him, but subsiding, the way water seeks its level. He imagines that the methylated whatsit is soaking into his fingertips as Finn sweats it out, that the contentment and enjoyment is catching, wrapping the two of them together and holding them up. He closes his eyes to feel it more, and Finn shifts in his arms and kisses him.

Poe falls in with it for a minute, licks and tastes and sighs when Finn's teeth nudge at his lower lip, before he pulls away and says, “I'm cool if you want to do this but--” He's stuck. The worry is back, and the frustration too. Suggesting that Finn doesn't know what he wants, or isn't capable of making decisions, or even _seeming_ to suggest that, historically has not gone well: it's the only time Poe's ever seen him be unreasonable.

“Just this,” Finn says, “just kissing you, if that's okay, is it okay?”

Poe isn't sure. He's having too many reactions at once, and he's not all that proud of any of them, and they're not aligning well with Finn's chemically induced lack of complication, the pleasure in touch, the transparent requests. He strokes Finn's back some more, hoping to recover the feeling of a moment ago and get out of his own head a little, and Finn holds himself still, just waiting, seeing what Poe will say.

This isn't _tractability_ , it's kindness, fairness, the same things Poe's trying to offer. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, it's good,” and Finn makes a quiet, contented sound, presses his mouth to Poe's again.

They kiss for what feels like the rest of the night, but it can' t be, because Poe wakes up at one point and that means he must have been asleep. “...trust you,” Finn's in the middle of saying, “with everything, everything, I know you'll get us where we need to go.” Poe can't form words, so he just finds Finn's mouth again.

The next time he's awake, it's still dark but Finn's getting out of bed, and Poe feels like maybe there's something he should warn Finn about but he can't remember what it is enough to say it. Nothing happens except that after a while Finn settles in next to him again, so maybe it wasn't important.

When Poe opens his eyes to morning light, Finn's eyes are open too. They've disengaged during the night, and Finn is on his back. He's staring at the ceiling again but his expression is different in a way Poe can't sort out because his thoughts are still lagging. “Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” Finn says, and then, “I'm sorry.”

“F'what?”

“Not helping,” Finn says. “Being out of it. Last night. I almost messed up the mission for us.”

“You didn't. It was fine. Look, we're fine, we're here, no one even tried to get in during the night.” It's true, the window and door alarms are still blinking peacefully blue.

“Yeah, but you were counting on me and I let you down.”

“That's not how it was at all.” He's a little more awake by this time. “It's like you got wounded in combat. Matter of fact, it's exactly like that. You were incapacitated by enemy action. That's not the same as letting anybody down.”

He's watching Finn intently now, and sees the smile seeking to form at the near corner of his mouth. “The Veiy Gua Har Gua isn't our enemy.”

“They are _now,”_ Poe says, and the smile breaks through for a second before Finn turns serious, raising himself on an elbow and looking at Poe with his concentration face: “Is that what we think is going on? If they're in bed with the First Order, that could explain the spiked drinks. Spiked?”

“Spiked is more when you put alcohol in something that isn't supposed to have it. It could be. But they're a financial trust, they protect their shareholders and their shareholders protect them. Drugging us tells us they see the Resistance as a threat to them, or a chance to profit--”

“--but not what kind, right,” Finn says, picking up perfectly. “Okay, well, that gives us a place to start. We can put people on their shareholders when we get back, maybe see if Lando can set up some kind of shell account to help us follow the money...” They sketch out a plan together, lying there, stale-breathed and disheveled in the bunched sheets, and Poe is as exhilarated as if they were fucking. More: this is what he missed last night, what he was yearning for. Finn insightful, Finn sensible, Finn all the way present, Finn bringing out the best in him.

But it comes to him now that Finn disoriented, Finn incapable, Finn in need is still Finn. That next time whatever hits him hard might not leave him so sweet; that he might not come back at all to the acuity and good sense he's displaying this morning. And that he, Poe, is going to be there, as there as he can, for as long as he survives and as long as Finn wants him, or needs him, or both.

“It's kinda the same, though, right?” Finn finishes up. “More intoxicating than you expect it to be.”

“What?” Poe says. “Oh, spiked. Yeah, I guess it's kinda the same.”

Finn scoots closer, puts a hand on Poe's hip. “You took care of us last night,” he says. “I know it's just what you _would_ do and I heard what you said about it not being my fault, but I still want to say thank you.”

“You already did. You said you trusted me.”

“I know I said that. I was high, not hallucinating. I remember everything I said and everything you said. You were nice to me, too, I don't know if I would've been as nice as you were.”

“So you remember that you said my ass was great? I'm just checking your recall.”

“It is great,” Finn says, adjusting his hand position accordingly. “I don't need recall for that.” He kisses Poe just under the right eye. “Are we, uh, are we in a rush here?”

Poe's dick expresses a definite interest in the answer to this question. “The room's booked through till planetary noon,” he says. “Which is also the earliest takeoff window. Can't do anything about physics.”

“Good,” Finn says. “I'm going to piss and rinse off and then I'm going to come back.” He sits up, pours the rest of the water into the glass, drinks it down in a continuous swallow. Poe watches with increasing arousal and enjoyment as Finn puts on his trousers but doesn't bother with the belt, so they slide down a little bit over the swell of his ass; as Finn says to BB-8, “I remember everything you said, too,” and gets a binary “You're welcome” in response; as Finn unhesitatingly deactivates the door alarm just before Poe is about to remind him of it ( _that_ was what it was last night) and turns back to look at Poe with a sunrise smile on his face.

Poe lies under the sheet, stroking himself every now and then to keep the pot boiling, as it were. Thoughts drift across his mind without going anywhere in particular, about kindness and fairness and the framework they make for the need he's feeling now, and about the possibility that he didn't fuck up completely, and about his flight path, and about Finn's dick which he's going to get to touch again soon. “Beeb, you might want to power down or something,” he remembers. BB-8 makes their rudest noise, and Poe blows a Corellian cheer back, and palms his cock and waits for Finn to return to him.

 


End file.
